Tag: Baptist

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Next stop. San Antonio

I nudged the clinic door. It opened and I inched toward a desk behind which sat a dark-haired middle-aged lady. The receptionist. A pain shot through my back at the waist line. My knees buckled but I caught myself, barely dodging a crash to the hardwood floor.

“Óh, sir!” Her concern was genuine. She indicated a chair. “Here. Right here.” I eased into it, contorting my limbs and back in a few deft maneuvers.

“The doctor will see you in just a minute. Another slow turn and I was seated, a trace of perspiration beading my eyebrows. Thanking her with a silent nod, I began filling the first-visit patient form. After a couple entries, I had relaxed enough to reflect on the event sixteen hours that brought me now to this house-turned-clinic.

A wry smile momentarily hijacked my features. If Francis could see me now.

Shortly before our San Antonio move, my co-worker at Tulsa’s North American Aviation had asked what job awaited me in the Alamo City. Now, between winces, I imagined his I-told-you-so if he could meet up with me today in this bone-cruncher establishment (the average chiropractor of the era hoped to see his specialty one day rise above the “snake-oil peddler” status it was often relegated to).

Well, Francis, it’s like this. Down at the corner of Caldera and Bandera there’s this Phillips 66 station. . .

Midafternoon yesterday I had grabbed two car tires, each of them encircling its own heavy rim. Lifting a heavy load while swiveling to another direction defied sound judgment. This insight was shouted to me from that waist line point along my spinal column.

But fifty minutes from entering Dr. Brown’s clinic I left convinced a miracle-worker had signaled magic to my miserable frame. Unlike at my entry, I exited the premises without a whimper. The bone-cruncher enterprise had won my vote.

This early encounter into our South Texas move served as a kind of preview for my wife Ann and me. Twists and turns of our movements ahead would usher in adventure, discovery. Pain would play its role.

How do you turn a Pentecostal into a Baptist, then to something other, and still retain qualities of each.

A fellow with the middle name of Worthy crossed my path. I was never the same.
©2017 Jerry Lout

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Unexplainable

I’m dreaming, right? Hallucinating?

By the time I again took a seat the Preacher-man had shifted from prophesying mode to Holy Ghost fund-raising. I sat quiet, weeping, marinating in a fog of wonder.

Rev. G.C. had drawn a bill from his wallet. Waving it to the gathering, he sounded a challenge.

“Who’ll join me tonight in getting this young man and his wife over to Africa. . . so they can start doing God’s work?”

An offering basket had found its way to the preacher’s side. In minutes it overflowed. Although the week of meetings had not been billed as a Missions conference, everyone present was now taken by a get-the-gospel-to-the-world passion. Spontaneous generosity flowed, with cash gifts and pledged offerings fully meeting Ann and my travel costs. Africa, here we come. Wow.

The road trip with its surprise happenings drew to a close. My good mentor-friend and I headed back to San Antonio. “Brother Jerry,” David’s his easy drawl interrupted the silence as the car hummed southward. “Isn’t this something? Hasn’t this trip been just something? Imagine what Ann’s going to say.”

Whatever my wife might voice, the thing I was surely not ready for was what David himself – my fellow student and ministry friend – would be saying.

Next Lord’s Day arrived for Eastwood Baptist. Our worship service was underway. A couple of late arrivals settled into their pews and Pastor David was at the podium.

“You know, folks, our Lord is an amazing God.” David eased into the topic of the Oklahoma visit just past. Stationed at my usual spot at the platform, mentally reviewing a hymn I would soon guide the worshipers in, I heard David mention my name.

Oh my goodness, I thought. Is he going to have me tell these very baptisty Baptists about the Big Georgia preacher-man? About the prophecy things in Okmulgee? Oh my.

In a matter-of-fact gesture, David turned my way.

“. . so I’d like Brother Jerry to come and share something of what God did there.”

Stepping forward I surveyed the gathering. Dear folks Ann and I had grown fond of – devoted fellow-travelers on a heaven-bound road, sat quietly. I realized how close we had become. The anxiety dialed down.

In a few words, void of terms and clichés common to my Pentecostal upbringing, I shared with our faith community. The words came easily. No persuasive tone was needed. I sensed that they readily understood, that they welcomed, even celebrated the news. Of added confirmation to our call. In their attentive, Baptist kind of way.

God was setting things in motion. Ann’s precocious childhood forecast, “When I grow up I’m going to be a missionary in Africa”, was nearing fulfillment. We would go together.

The microphone passed back to David. Another surprise awaited.
©2017 Jerry Lout

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Defining moments

Non-sectarian.

I liked my childhood church, whose wooden benches supplied on their underside, a landing place for my thoroughly-spent chewing gum.

Before entering I studied the odd word on the church’s sign-board. I practiced sounded it out well before I knew its meaning – Non-sec-tar-i-an.

It was a bold word – a statement declaring our religious identity – holding a prominent spot on the sign. The word was printed large, straight beneath our other self-defining label – Non-denominational.

It seemed important to the leadership that visitors and passersby knew we were somehow different from most churches. Quite different. The sign provided me an early sampling of complicated words. Later, I was introduced to others, like ‘oxymoron’.

If I had been old enough to be perplexed I would have maybe wondered, Why would such a warm, loving community as ours feel a need to persuade folks that we were not divisive, that we were safe?

Over time I grappled with the fact that religion, like politics, finds dividing up an easy thing. We separate, form new and more distinctive camps. It happens perhaps in spite of ourselves – despite the fact common beliefs can be more common among us than we might think. Erecting walls demands less energy than building bridges. So it seems.

I feel personally a sting of shame. At my own offense. Of labeling inferior or less righteous that gathering of the faithful the other side of town, or that community down the street. My own private ‘non-sectarian’ sign, adorning a shadowy wall in a corridor of my inner self.

Ann and I found our on-ramp into the world of Christian service marked, on the other hand, by complementing, not competing camps. Baptists and Pentecostals – polar opposites in expression and style – rejoicing, celebrating, even generously giving. To a thing bigger, a lot bigger than any of us might experience if left to ourselves. Amazed. We were amazed.

A.W. Tozer* suggests we’re best off tuning our hearts to Jesus. “Has it ever occurred to you that one hundred pianos all tuned to the same fork are automatically tuned to each other? They are of one accord by being tuned, not to each other, but to another standard to which each one must individually bow. . .”

We began encountering a curious cross-breed along the way. The hand of a new acquaintance would extend, a twinkle of mischievous warmth lighting their eyes. Their name. The handshake. .

“I call myself a Bapticostal”.

©2017 Jerry Lout *The Pursuit Of God